BOOKER Box Set #1 (Books 1-3: A Private Investigator Thriller Series of Crime and Suspense)

by John W. Mefford

  I closed my eyes for a moment, once again feeling empathy for the Double Ds, but I also let it sink in that I’d allowed myself to be associated with organized crime, even indirectly. I’m the one who didn’t call my buddy, Henry, in the district attorney’s office when I knew David had broken the law. I’m the one who endorsed David setting up this catering business to pay back clients he milked. My feet were moist from wading in a pool of slime. I just couldn’t let the connection get any deeper. I knew better.

  “You probably feel like he’ll find a reason to own you as long as you can make him money.”

  David nodded. “I could show up with a million bucks tomorrow, and something tells me he’d figure out a way to manipulate an angle that would force me into working for him for the rest of my life.”

  I thought about David’s minor heart attack back when he’d been put in the pressure cooker a few months ago, and how he’d said that his dad had died at age forty from a heart condition. Vincent, nor anyone else, might not get much more out of David if he didn’t change his routine.

  “Look, let me think about this a bit. You do the same. I know safety is at the top of your list right now, yours and Dax’s. But I have that friend in the DA’s office.”

  He chuckled. “We go to authorities, and I guarantee you I’ll end up face down in the Trinity River sludge.”

  I couldn’t argue his point.

  “We’ll talk.” I took a step and gave him an assuring pat on the shoulder. He turned his head and nodded, releasing a long breath.

  We walked through the lavish condo, crossing into the gallery/foyer. I put a hand on the door handle, then thought of a question that had been gnawing at me.

  “Jenna, the other clients, how did you pinpoint them as targets of your investment scheme?”

  “Vincent, again. He gave me the name of a guy on the west side who ran a funeral home. This guy fed me a list of ladies who’d lost their husbands in the previous few months, women he knew who had some money to invest.”

  I shook my head and walked out, a pungent garbage odor at the Trinity River bottoms invading my thoughts.

  5

  A low drone of voices, light music, and occasional clinking of glasses emanated through the floors and door in my small office situated seventeen stairs above The Jewel. In less than an hour the entire building would be in full rock mode, as Justin’s latest marketing plan—a special performance by a well-known rapper returning to his home city— would be played out.

  Alisa, pen in mouth and her curly blond locks corralled by a claw hair clip, rattled her fingers on her laptop keyboard sitting on the other side of a metal desk that didn’t appear to be level.

  “You ready to review the state of affairs for Booker & Associates?”

  Removing her pen, she kept her gaze on her laptop screen. “Just sending off one quick email to our security contact at Firecracker Apps. And…sent.”

  I rocked forward in my off-balance swivel chair, which released a wretched, pig-like squeal. I guess that was what you got when you purchased second-hand furniture.

  Glancing around the ten-by-fifteen space, I felt a sense of pride, although it was nothing to be cocky about. Once Justin, Alisa, and I had ironed out our bartering arrangement, we’d painted the walls a light brown color, cleaned the floors, wiped up cobwebs and thick layers of dust, and removed all of Justin’s old junk. Alisa went online and found a few pieces of furniture, including two mismatched floor lamps, two former doctor office chairs—each with lime green padding—and a framed poster of a red Ferrari 308 GTS, the very same one used in Magnum, P.I., a top-rated 1980s TV show set in Hawaii.

  Alisa’s reasoning for the hot sports car usually found on bedroom walls of hormonal teenagers? “We have to get some color in here somehow.” At about a tenth of the size, my framed private investigator’s license hung next to the Ferrari. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted two other important items: a metal filing cabinet that didn’t open all the way and a small safe behind my desk.

  The area was a little on the dark side, the only natural light shining through a round blue and white stained glass window perched above the filing cabinet. It was probably our coolest feature, the Ferrari notwithstanding.

  “First up, the background checks we’re doing for Firecracker Apps,” Alisa said reaching a finger to her screen. “I’ve completed fourteen so far, and we have five remaining. I sent you a file that summarizes the findings for each person on their management team.”

  “Anything juicy?” I asked.

  “Two guys were busted for possession of marijuana back in college.”

  I jumped in. “Hell, that’s legal in a few states now. What else did you come up with?”

  “One guy was accused of cheating on his SATs, another woman filed for bankruptcy and was later arrested for prostitution when she was just out of college, and…” She clicked her laptop mouse and scrolled down, her hazel eyes finding its mark. “Yes, I couldn’t forget this one. One of the co-founders, Nicholas Peterson, was arrested five years ago for smuggling five pounds of cocaine across the Canadian border.”

  My spine arched a bit more. “No conviction?”

  “Apparently just before the trial, there was a discrepancy around the handling of the evidence and charges were dropped.”

  I nodded. “That will be fun to share with the Board of Directors, especially with Peterson sitting in the room. Hey, nice work on all of the background checks. All this minutiae work can’t be a lot of fun.”

  “Actually, I really enjoy it. I would have never guessed, but it’s interesting to me. It uses a part of my brain that doesn’t get a lot exercise. No blonde jokes now.” Smirking, she pointed her pen at me.

  I held up my arms. “I wouldn’t go there, Alisa. I’ve known for a long time you have as much brains as you do beauty.”

  We both glanced away, and a couple of images shot through my mind as I recalled the first time Alisa and I had met. A twenty-one-year old junior at UT in Austin, I’d recently been kicked off the football team and dumped by my cheerleader girlfriend, and my best way of dealing with it was to party with friends on a Friday night. She was twenty-six, coming off a bizarre marriage to her old soccer coach, and had visited friends in Austin. Her gang of party animals met up with my buddies at Club Bravo. The two of us separated from the group and spent the next ten hours talking, sharing a burger, and yes, hooking up.

  We’d kept in touch off and on over the years, and rarely brought up our escapade to each other. When she started working for Justin a few years back, we agreed to keep the secret to ourselves. Now that we were working together, we’d avoided any sparks—nothing could compete with what had materialized with Britney—and if we didn’t have it before, we certainly had developed admiration and respect for each other’s skills.

  Alisa snapped her fingers. “Did you travel to Houston through the stained glass portal?”

  We both chuckled, and I said, “Something like that. You mentioned the accounts receivable issue over the phone. How many accounts are currently late?”

  “Two right now, but we’ve yet to receive any payment on time. And with you paying me for my hours every two weeks, the business account can run dangerously low.”

  “Tell you what…going forward, especially on the non-corporate work, I think we need to ask for a retainer up front. Let’s create a second version of our services contract and run it by Henry.”

  “I’ll add it to my list.”

  “Cool. Next?”

  Twisting her full lips, I could see a sly grin across her face. “It’s the Pittman case.” She angled her laptop so we both could see the screen.

  “I thought we’d closed this one out.”

  Alisa clicked the laptop mouse and images of Spencer Pittman with a young, voluptuous woman appeared on the screen, one of them holding hands and one of them kissing, tonguing each other like hungry anteaters.

  “Janice didn’t like the quality of the shots,” Alisa said somewhat timidly.<
br />
  “Quality of the shot? This isn’t a cover shot for Glamour magazine. Does she know I was lying in a puddle of oil and gas under a dually for two hours to get that shot? You take that picture to any lawyer in Texas, and Spencer Pittman will be writing her checks for the next forty years.”

  Alisa raised a hand and shrugged her shoulders. “What can I say? She said it’s too grainy.”

  I huffed out a breath. “Tell her she needs to pay us now for the hours we’ve worked. If she does that, I’ll go on another scavenger hunt. Work with her to figure out when she thinks Spencer and his PYT—”

  “PYT?”

  “Oh, sorry. I went Michael Jackson on you. Pretty Young Thing. Just let me know a night I call follow him, maybe after a late night at the office.”

  “Will do.” Flipping the computer around, she typed a note in our case file.

  Tapping my phone, I checked the time.

  “I know we’re up against it, but you said you’d give me the details behind the Double D investment fraud case.” She wiggled a pen between two fingers.

  I scratched my goatee, allowing my mind to sift through the latest series of events with David and Dax.

  “I’m going to give you the CliffsNotes version to avoid Justin having a coronary downstairs.”

  Five minutes later, she said, “Holyyyy shit.” A bit of her southern lilt came out, but her response summed up my sentiments on more fronts than I could count.

  “What are you…I mean we going to do?”

  “We’re not going to outfight Vincent and the band of goons at his disposal. I don’t want anyone else assaulted, even if they do owe our client almost twenty-five K. But knowledge is power. We need to learn everything there is about Vincent Sciafini. Can you tackle the research?”

  “I’m on it starting first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “You rock, Alisa.”

  “Speaking of…” She closed the lid on her computer, and the two of us moved to the office door.

  I added, “It’s that time. Let’s just hope this cat doesn’t literally bring the house down.”

  6

  A still bank of fog laid like a down comforter just above the two-story brick buildings surrounding The Jewel on lower Greenville Avenue in east Dallas. Among whoops and hollers, I shifted my gaze toward a long procession of patrons lining the exterior brick wall, waiting their turns to enter the bar. A cool mist softly coated my face, and using my mitt of a hand, I wiped it clear.

  The VIP performing tonight attracted an eclectic mixture of people, both in economic status and their attire. Ranging in age from probably twenty-five to fifty-five, a few dressed like they were attending church. A handful wore jeans and boots. I spotted two forty-something guys practicing their dance moves, each one sporting a potbelly while wearing golden parachute pants, sunglasses, and white high tops. They even mimicked the performer’s statuesque head of blond hair.

  “You got everything covered out here?” I flicked a wrist at Paco’s shoulder, five or six inches lower than mine. I’d asked my former partner to help Justin and me out tonight, an exercise in risk mitigation. Paco was just about the only guy I could trust blindly in any type of altercation, verbal or physical. I offered to pay him a fair hourly wage, but he insisted it was on the house if he had the opportunity to take in the show. Our arrangement further convinced me what I’d learned over the last few months—entrepreneurial business mostly consisted of bartering agreements, and then you prayed like hell your “street team” could siphon enough revenue-producing customers through the pipeline to keep the whole structure afloat and, if we were lucky, even grow a bit over time.

  “Yo, Booker, this whole scene is pretty fly,” he said, standing in front of red velvet rope acting as the bar’s gatekeeper.

  Snorting out a chuckle, I tapped his shoulder again. “Did you just hear yourself? I think you just went back in time fifteen or twenty years.”

  “Shit, man. It’s one of those nights. It’s going to bring back some crazy memories. Old school style.”

  “I hear ya.”

  I figured now wasn’t the proper time to share with Paco what Justin had informed me on the way out the door. Despite him advertising this event across every social media channel available, the featured VIP was only “dropping by” to perform two or three songs before heading off to a larger venue out in the suburbs. Apparently, The Jewel headliner was attempting to maintain a decent “street cred” by performing at these smaller bars in the city, knowing it wouldn’t pay much, but the public relations gain would bring huge dividends in the long run. Being an entrepreneur myself, I had to admire his moxie.

  Scanning the outside crowd one more time, I noticed a few pink faces. The temperature had probably dropped five to seven degrees since I’d stepped outside, and more folks stuffed hands in pockets, zipped up jackets, or held their significant other a little tighter.

  I thought about Britney, wishing she could have shared this experience with me. I took in a chilly breath and envisioned her—arms raised in the air, wearing that snug purple and black dress, dancing to a deafening bass beat, teasing me with her seductive blue eyes. She’d told me her family was in from Odessa, and she couldn’t avoid taking them out for a cliché Dallas dinner at one of the upscale chain restaurants.

  While Justin had given me two months advance notice about working security this evening, I still felt a bit slighted when Britney didn’t invite me to join her and her family. Then again, she had stuck to me like a fly trap on our last date night at Winspear Opera House for the stunning Sleeping Beauty ballet, followed by the alarming discovery of Courtney Johnson’s body. The more I thought about the actual murder—I’d already ruled out suicide, given the lack of a weapon on the scene and the angle of the wound in her head—the more it sounded like a professional hit. But whether it was the setting or Courtney’s bubbly personality and amazing, natural talent, it was hard to picture a scenario where she’d be associated with anyone who could pull off murder-for-hire.

  Turning away from Paco and the growing number of revelers, cars moved along slick streets with surprising caution, headlights illuminating a heavier drizzle. I rubbed the top of my head and realized my fro probably glistened.

  I rotated my head, like a dog who’d heard a high-pitched shrill. Looking north, my chest felt a slight moan bleeding into a more prominent thud. The bass reverberation morphed into distinct thumps just as a Hummer limousine turned onto Greenville, and in mere seconds, I felt my gut vibrate from the inside out. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one whose inner core had sensed the arrival of the guest of honor.

  “Yo, Booker they’re headed your way,” Paco hollered.

  Just as the fifty-foot yacht on street wheels lumbered up to the curb, I turned and was nearly run over by a throng of women, some of who could have passed as my mom—at least in terms of age. I saw a lot of jiggling in the wrong places.

  Back doors opened and a large black man, who had at least three inches and seventy pounds on me, emerged and extended his arm, both to fend off an expected mob of fans and to introduce the man himself.

  “Do you see him, do you see him?” I heard two fever-pitched women shriek like they were about to meet the person who held the secret location of the fountain of youth.

  “Oh. My. God,” said another girl, swooping in with her friend, both in their mid-twenties. They’d mastered the art of talking, texting, and jogging at the same time. If they added in chewing gum, I’d be impressed.

  A minute passed, and the performer stayed in his limo.

  “Do you think he’s actually in there, or is he sneaking in the back door?” Paco had strolled up next to me.

  “Who knows, maybe he had an important meeting with the Dalai Lama?” I smiled.

  Paco nudged me with an elbow, but I noticed his weight rock left and right, as if he was just as excited about the unveiling as the mostly female crowd around us.

  “No, I really think he had to meet with the Secretary of Commerce to discu
ss a fair trade agreement with China.”

  “Wow, Booker, you’re on a roll tonight, my man.”

  Suddenly, a guy shrouded in a gold cape popped out of the limo. Covering his entire body, he ran toward Paco and me. Shoving Paco one way, I slid backward, and we opened an alley among a sea of makeup. Justin arrived at the front door just in time for the VIP to enter at full stride in about three point four seconds.

  “No worries, everyone,” Justin shouted from the door. “He just needs a few minutes to warm up, and we’ll be ready to rock in T minus fifteen minutes.”

  Bewildered looks turned positive, and people flocked to their place in line. Paco ran point, checking identifications, ensuring no one was carrying a weapon, and generally interacting with each person to filter out any potential troublemakers.

  Shuffling through the enlarged wood and glass door alongside four ladies, I was met with a dramatic rise in noise and temperature. Bodies filled almost every crevice, and an old-school DJ with a headphone attached to his ear was scratching records at the other end of the room, where Justin had cleared out the lounge area, elevated a couple of feet on a small stage. I assumed that was where our performer would do his thing.

  Given my job was to ensure the party remained violence-free and, if Justin had his way, full of happy, paying customers, I attempted to walk the room, but I didn’t get far without being bumped and groped, I think by accident. I scooted between two girls whose chests met far before their bodies did.

  “Coming through, Booker!” Alisa said, lifting a tray of shot glasses over my head.

  “Hey!” I waved to her back.

  “What do you think?” Justin had snuck up behind me, his mouth a couple of inches from my ear.

  “I don’t know what you paid for the act, but I haven’t seen The Jewel this full of people. Paying customers it appears.”

  He put a hand on my shoulder, his voice filled with energy and excitement. “I need to see if our special guest is ready for my introduction, but we just did our best two hours ever. Do you smell those apps?”